


Bloody Silmarils

by Dilly, scythe_lyfe



Series: Bloody Silmarils [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comedy, Crack, Cultural Differences, Dysfunctional Family, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elves, Elves are Dicks, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Gondolin, Humor, M/M, Satire, Sindar, The Noldor, Vinyamar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dilly/pseuds/Dilly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scythe_lyfe/pseuds/scythe_lyfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Gondolin, Turgon is depressed... A Silmarillion parodic story in the way of the tv-show Kaamelott and the Monty Python's Holy Grail. [Translation by Scythe_Lyfe]<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Miller of Gondolin

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Maudits Silmarils, livre 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/931698) by [Dilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dilly/pseuds/Dilly). 



> Disclaimers : J.R.R. Tolkien for all his writings ; Alexandre Astier for Kaamelott ; Monty Python for the Holy Grail.

**Notes :**  

A Silmarillion parodic story in the way of the tv-show  _Kaamelott_ by Alexandre Astier and the  _Monty Python's Holy Grail_. So it's a bit crack. But the story can be read without knowing them.

This is the translation of a fanfiction originally written in french, entitled “Maudits Silmarils”, with a lot of characters and chapters (and still in progress). It's a bit like a tv-show.

This is a new translation by [Scythe-Lyfe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scythe_lyfe/pseuds/scythe_lyfe), and I think it's easier to read. Thanks to [Tehta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tehta/pseuds/tehta) for her advice too ! 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Chapter 1 : The miller of Gondolin**

 

Usually, the king sat on a golden throne in the highest tower of the Hidden City, wearing a magnificent nightgown-like robe and a sullen, severe expression. His eyes, bright and grey, were like curtains of rain pierced by sunlight, and his dark hair framed a face so perfect in its symmetry it almost seemed to be carved in stone. A circlet of white gold sat atop his hair, which nearly reached the belt at his waist. It was a tradition for the males of his line to let their hair grow as long as possible as a sign of virility, a fact which had long been the subject of dubious jokes among the sons of Fëanor.

But this day, Turgon, second son of Fingolfin, was in a rather good mood. He had nearly convinced his daughter to wear shoes when she went out, in the hopes of preventing some terrible injury. He had also measured a ten centimeter increase in the height of the white tree he had planted on the hill, and only once had he thought of his dead wife, when he had just awoken.

"My king," announced his chamberlain, interrupting an unhappy second time, "a human being is requesting an audience."

"A mortal? Bring him in."

A few minutes later a simply dressed man of an indeterminate age walked into the hall. His brown hair curled around his face and his chin was bearded.

"Mister... Erik requests an audience with his majesty King Turgon!" announced a herald.

The man bowed, staring at the king with a curiosity only seen in humans. He was not young by the reckoning of his people, but his eyes were a youthful shade of green like the first grass seen after a damp winter.

"Erik?" echoed the king, with growing interest. "From which House?"

Oh, humans often reminded him of cute little squirrels. Furry, with a short life expectancy.

"Fram the house b'hind the mill, my lor'."

Turgon raised a pointed eyebrow.

"He's the miller of Gondolin, my lord" explained the chamberlain.

"Since when can anyone just walk into this valley as if it were a mill house?" [(1) «  To walk in somewhere like into a mill  »/ «  Entrer quelque part comme dans un moulin  » is a french expression meaning you can just walk right into a place without any boundaries and control. ]

Turgon caught the unintentional wordplay, but Erik was eager to reply :

"Our fahder had lived 'ere, and the fahder of my fahder, my lor'. Our fam'ly 'ad gone with thou to thy magic valley, to grow crops."

"Huh, good. And what is the reason for your visit here, O Miller?"

"That'd be the bread my lor', 'twill make thy people sick! Us, we saw some dark stains on the wheat, but the elves as brought it still wanted it ground, pretending elves cannot get ill, like!"

"Which is true, actually. But carry on with your account. Who consumed that wheat and what were its effects? I fear some dark invention of Morgoth."

"The elves fram the third farm before the city, my lor'. They was dancing and laughing and couldn't stop. Jumped right into the trees and sang some songs as sprang out o' their 'eads! Invented some rhymes 'bout my beard and 'bout the bread, and slept with their eyes wide open!

"No, my good Erik," concluded the king. "They're not ill, they're just normally like that."

 

* * *

 

"Whose funeral is that, Penlodh ?" asked the king. "I haven't heard anything about it."

"Nobody of importance," replied the chamberlain "just a human miller. He was well appreciated in the valley, although he had a strange way of expressing himself."

"A human miller... You mean Erik the Miller?"

"Indeed, your Majesty."

"But how did he perish, he was so young?! I met him only recently, he came to talk to me about a wheat disease..."

"Young? He was more than sixty years old my king, a venerable age for a human."

"Then it must have been ten... twenty... thirty years ago," Turgon concluded. "He only took thirty years to die ?!"

"One of my aquaintances offered me this interesting comparison, your Majesty : humans are like goldfish. One day you may return to your house and find them dead, without any visible explanation. All you have to do is turn away for a minute in distraction. A sudden chill or a heat wave, a bowl of food added or subracted, and BAM! They're dead."

The king's face darkened ; for the sixth time that day he was thinking about the large iceberg that had killed his wife.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) « To walk in somewhere like into a mill »/ « Entrer quelque part comme dans un moulin » is a french expression meaning you can just walk right into a place without any boundaries and control.


	2. Blasé

**Chapter 2 : Blasé**

 

 

The king arrived, at last. A very good thing, since Lord High Constable, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, had broken a chair, a pitcher, and a glass during his wait. He had a great deal of difficulty controlling his strength.

"I do apologize for being late," the king said, "I had an appointment with the city's architects, and I'm sure you know how they are."

"I can well imagine, Majesty. The one in my employ has yet to finish my house, and the little that he's completed falls down as soon as it's touched."

Turgon wasn't sure that was the architect's fault, but he kept the thought to himself. Glorfindel had set several sheets of parchment on the round table, each one with a picture of the blazons of Gondolin's Twelve Houses. Only the king's was missing.

Turgon laid down the picture he had drawn, inked, and colored himself next to the rest. His coat of arms consisted of a white moon, a yellow sun, and a scarlet heart.

"It's very beautiful," commented Glorfindel with a smile, "but if I may be so bold, your Majesty... Why a heart ?"

Turgon sighed in the manner of those who have answered a particular question far too many times. "Come, it is obviously the heart of my father, Fingolfin, the high king of the Noldor."

Glorfindel's smile froze in some indefinable expression.

"Your father's... heart ?"

"I did just say that," quipped Turgon.

"You mean.. that's his cardiac muscle ?"

"Glorfindel, why are you always so literal ? It's a symbol. The scarlet heart represents the love between us and the love he has for his people.

The expression on Glorfindel's face didn't improve.

"What about the heart is bothering you ? Tell me now or cease wearing that confounded expression. You look as if you have been bitten by a balrog.

Glorfindel cleared his throat.

"Ahem... So, you really want my opinion, your majesty ?"

"I would not have asked otherwise."

"Well... I find it looks a bit, how to define it... A heart, on a banner, facing the orcish legions of Angband..."

"Continue."

"They're going to..." Glorfindel trailed off.

"To what ?" Turgon demanded impatiently.

"It looks..." Glorfindel faltered again.

"... Looks ?" Prompted Turgon, thoroughly exasperated.

"A bit... sissy, Majesty," the elf choked out quickly.

Turgon, with his stony expression, looked at Glorfindel with his long wavy golden hair and his clothes which were dotted with embroidered flowers on a field of green.

"You don't say ?"

The Captain of Gondolin nodded.

"And the golden flower does not...?"

"Well, you told me to be sincere, your Majesty. Imagine Gothmog's mirth on the battlefield."

"Well then it'll distract him. And you will take full advantage of his distraction and bring him down."

"There is no way I'm fighting a balrog," replied Glorfindel, rather alarmed.

"Why not? Aren't you the strongest elf in Middle Earth aside from my father ?"

"I'm not crazy, I don't have a death wish."

"Is that not what I pay you for, to vanquish fearsome enemies ?"

"With all due respect, Majesty, you don't actually pay me."

"I don't ?"

"You don't."

Turgon turned back to Penlodh, his chamberlain who had been standing still in a corner of the room since the meeting began.

"Penlodh, do I not pay him ?"

"No my Lord, you do not."

"But certainly he must be paid, like all the other soldiers ?"

"The other soldiers aren't paid either," Glorfindel interjected.

"How is that?"

"You are the king," Penlodh addressed Turgon, "you don't have to pay them to fight for king and country."

"Alright Glorfindel, how much must I give you to face a balrog ?"

"Not for all the gold in Arda, Majesty. It will be heading for certain death, and I didn't make it all the way across the Ice to return now to my starting point in Aman."

Glorfindel had a point, and Turgon thought of his wife again.

 

* * *

 

Three months later and two hundred miles away, on Himring the Ever-cold, a hunting party led by prince Maedhros and his brother Maglor, who was visiting from his post on the Eastern Gap, returned through the iron portcullis. They wore fur and silver armor but no jewelry. Maedhros' shining copper hair fell freely over his shoulders and about his face. There had been a time when he was a great beauty, but now his face was drawn and his eyes were haunted, bereft of their former spark.

He dismounted his horse and signalled for one of his squires to care for it.

"Anything new during my absence ?" he asked his Seneschal.

No my Lord. Nothing but a package from your cousin Turgon, which awaits you in your room."

 

* * *

 

"Maglor, come look at this!" Maedhros called out a few minutes later, "we just received Turgon's new standard."

Maglor the Bard removed his leather boots and then approached the wooden desk where the bright banner had been laid out.

"The work is beautiful," he assayed, touching the delicate embroidery on the fabric, "but that scarlet emblem here, it can't really be a heart, can it ?"

"It definitely is."

The two brothers stayed silent and for a moment did not dare to voice their thoughts. Then Maedhros turned to Maglor. "Looks a bit sissy, doesn't it ?"

"That it does," replied Maglor with a definite smirk.

 

 

 

**  
**


	3. Women's rights

**Chapter 3 : Women's rights**

 

 

Turgon was not an elf to shy away from a challenge. His approach to life was a slow and steady burn, but the fire was still there, and he would solve any problem he was faced with. ****

So, he went to his daughter's apartments that morning, determined to deal with a certain ongoing problem. Young Idril, who had the same golden hair as her Vanyarin mother, but with the high cheekbones and melancholy eyes of her father, was resting in her parlour, a brightly lit room with floors covered in a thick green carpet which was a perfect likeness to grass. Three very learned Noldor craftsmen had worked for several years to achieve this marvel - elves sometimes had rather unusual ideas.

"Good morning, Atar. What brings you here ?"

"I have a present for you, Idril," Turgon answered.

He had his servants open the boxes they were carrying and leave the contents on Idril's table of blue marble.

"These magnificent shoes, made by the best bootmaker in the city. The buckles were forged at my request by Enerdhil himself, so go on and admire them ! I had them done from a molding of your foot so they should be a perfect match."

The girl came forward with small, careful steps, as if the shoes were alive and might attack her.

"What is this material ?" she asked, tracing a taupe slipper decorated with gold.

"Vair. Aren't they adorable ?"

Idril sighed. "Father, you know my aversion to shoes. They make me feel like a prisoner and they cause all sorts of corns and callouses."

"That can't be worse than having a centimeter-thick sole," said Turgon in his exasperation, "do you know what they call you in the city ? Idril Ironfoot. Because they say the soles of your feet are so thick they could stop an orcish arrow. And what elf prince will want to marry you with such feet? You know what the Noldor look for in a mate? Brilliant hair, melodious voice, long neck, small breasts, big thighs, and _delicate feet._ "

Princess Idril burst into tears.

"Why ? Why shouldn't I have the right to walk barefoot as a free woman? My aunt-"

"Do not use your aunt as an example. She is also unmarried, and why do you think Celegorm didn't offer her marriage? Because like everyone else, he is saving himself for a beautiful, _refined_ woman with _delicate feet._ Lately your aunt resembles a Telerin fishmonger. Besides, going barefoot is an Avarin practice and even they have the sense to put on boots before walking on gravel."

"Oh father, that is cruel ! You are a mean elf."

"I am not mean. I'm sensible."

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, at an inn near the barracks, the White Lady of the Noldor placed her muddy boots on a coffee table. The she-elf, dressed in white trousers and a simple tunic, was telling a childhood story to the soldiers crowded around her, with a large glass of liquor in her hand.

"And that was my vengence. I snuck into his bedroom as he slept and cut off his braids, ribbons and all. I can tell you that when he woke, Fingon the Valiant did not look so tough."

The soldiers called for a toast, "to Aredhel, the best teller of tales this side of the Sea!"

 

* * *

 

Back in the palace, Turgon was still lecturing Idril.

"And she dared to demand that our father include women in the line of succession ! I mean really-"

 

* * *

Unaware of her brother's ranting, Aredhel continued to expound to her soldier companions, "it's true, I do not see why only men could rule. We women have the same skills. My brother loathes to admit it, but when we lived in Valinor, Galadriel always beat him at the sporting tournaments."

The soldiers nodded in agreement.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Turgon's lecture continued, "can you imagine your aunt ruling ? Think of the problems she would cause, what with the men she brings home."

 

* * *

 

Back the inn, Aredhel got on with her tale, "and then Turgon said to me, 'you, Queen ? So that you could give the throne right back to the Fëanorians ?' So I answered him, 'if I am to be Queen, even if I get married, I shall keep the rule of the Noldor for myself. And I'll kick Morgoth's ass, for good measure."

The soldiers cheered their racuous approval.

 

* * *

 

Back at the palace, Turgon was sharing his perspective on that story. "And then, she actually said to me that she would 'kick Morgoth's ass.' I was reduced to giggles for the first time in ten years!"

 

* * *

 

And back at the inn, Aredhel finished her tale. "And then my brother started laughing, and said to me that even if women were included in the line of succession, if he died the throne would pass to his daughter, not to me."

"And how did you answer him ?" One of the soldiers called out.

"I withdrew my demand," Aredhel said, and tossed back the rest of her liquor. Women ruling was one thing, but a woman who walked around barefoot was another story entirely.

 

 


	4. Epic Poetry

**Chapter 4 : Epic poetry**

 

 

"Since you asked my opinion on the subject," Penlodh said haughtily, "my interpretation of the sacred texts is that Illuvatar created the world in the manner of an artist.  And the world and its history are the fruits of a dialectic between the Void and the Secret Fire, the Secret Fire of Creation." 

 _I wonder how he comes by all this_ , Glorfindel thought as Turgon listened attentively.

"If we take the time to reflect, Majesty, this idea permits us to discern the initial source of evil. It's found in the relationship of Melkor to the Void. Melkor's disordered relationship with the Void rendered him impotent as an artist and caused him to hate our people, the Elves, who are naturally born artists."

Turgon remained still for a few seconds, resting his chin on his fist.  Then he said to Penlodh, "I agree with you." 

He then looked to Glorfindel and Rog for their opinions on Penlodh's thesis. The two elves nodded seriously.

A few minutes later, they left the King and his Herald to their discussion and took refuge on the portico at the foot of the tower.

"Did you really understand anything he said ?" asked Glorfindel.

"No," replied Rog.

"Me neither. When in doubt, I nod along."

 

* * *

 

It was Turgon's favorite way to spend an afternoon : indulging in painting or mosaics while Hildor of the Harp, his minstrel, regaled him with his latest compositions. In his most recent work, he told how Turgon's half-cousin, Maedhros, had been captured by orcs, brought before Morgoth, then tied by one iron wristcuff to Thangorodrim where he remained nailed for years before Fingon, Turgon's older brother, came to free him and end the torture.

 

Through his night-colored eyes he saw at the end,

The son of Fëanor, his old friend,

Alone and shackled to the cliff face :

Maedhros, the one well made.

 

"The one well made ?" repeated Turgon, interrupting his work, "you call Maedhros the one well made ?"

"Indeed, Majesty, that has always been his name. Maitimo, which means the well formed or the well made, the name he was given by his mother. If you recall, when we lived in Tirion, he had an incomparable grace and the most beautiful smile. I also remember, with great feeling, his copper hair and his grey eyes sparkling and overflowing with kindness. Only the Maïar stood taller than him and his entire body was perfectly proportioned, with a face, muscles, and rear end to match the sculptures of his mother. Those of all ages and genders struggled not to stare when he entered a room. Even Manwë was astonished by him. Maybe if there had been no tragedy, if Melkor had not stolen the light of the Trees and set us on the path to exile, maybe Manwë would have made him his cup-bearer up there on Taniquetil."

"Oh no, don't start with your delusions of grandeur."

"But Majesty..."

"I know very well how he came by that name. I am two meters and 30 centimeters tall and I only reached his nostrils."

"Perfectly chiseled nostrils, mind you."

"And I won't speak of my brother, who is fifteen centimeters shorter than me. No, the problem is that poor Maedhros is no longer all well made. He is missing a hand and covered in scars. He must feel terrible each time he hears that old name, don't you think ?"

"In that case, Majesty, I suggest naming him Maedhros the One Handed. What do you think ?"

"Is this a joke ? Who would be pleased with such a morbid epithet ?!"

"It isn't out of place in the realm of epic poetry, my King," replied the vexed bard.

"Don't you have anything else ?"

"Oh very well, he also has another name: Russandol, the Red Head."

"By Eru, do you really want to tell of the mighty deeds of 'the Red Head' ?"

"Hmm... The only other name he was called by is the Tall."

"Perfect ! The Tall works very well. Not too pretty, not too bloody. It's perfectly sensible, I like it very much."

"I'll have to change all the rhymes," muttered Hildor.

"So I was thinking... While we're discussing names... About my daughter..."

"Idril Ironfoot ?"

"Couldn't we change her name as well? Replace iron with silver, for example. Just a tiny semantic shift... With any luck, history, in the centuries that pass, will forget the reason for the name and attribute it to something else."

"That is to say ?"

"That they won't attribute it to the thickness of her sole."

"Her feet are most endurant and well angled, Majesty."

"So as long as you are here... Wait, what ?! No, no, when I make a suggestion it's the same as if I make a command, I do not ask for you opinion on the matter !"

 

* * *

_Some time later_

* * *

 

"Ok... What is the name given to my cousin Finrod ?"

"Felagund, the Explorer of Caves. You don't want to change that one, do you ?"

"No, it fits well. And that of my cousin Artanis ?"

"Galadriel, the Lady Crowned in Radiant Light."

"Beautiful. And myself ?"

"The Sage."

Turgon sat straighter in his throne.

"I like it very much. Quite sensible."

"Indeed, Majesty, very sensible." 

 


	5. Marriage

**Chapter 5 : Marriage**

 

"Master architects," announced Turgon, "I have called this meeting to address a very serious imminent situation. We have been at peace for ten years now. And it is precisely now that you must undertake your greatest challenge yet. In the coming fifty years, it is of the utmost importance that you build, build, and build some more. Houses, nurseries, schools. Lots of nurseries."

"Excuse me, Majesty, but what's the occasion ?"

"Do you remember Valinor ? That period of bliss where the Noldor reproduced like rabbits ? History is about to repeat itself. Elven biology dictates that we do not have children in times of war or in dangerous conditions - our bodies' carnal urges naturally diminish. We have been in such a state for over a century. The populations of Nevrast and Gondolin have barely increased, the small number of births have not been enough to compensate for those lost in the war against Morgoth. But the threat has receded, the siege of Angband was concluded, and we prosper anew. Meanwhile, all the built up energy from the times of hardship hasn't disappeared. It's there, just under the surface. We are sitting on a veritable volcano of Elven libido. Soon enough, the honest artisan, the ethereal minstrel, they'll all transform before our horrified eyes into the likes of Fëanor, with the fire to sire seven children on their wives."

"By Varda ! Seven children ?"

"We must plan for the worst."

 

* * *

Six months later.

* * *

 

 

"A message from your father, Majesty," announced Penlodh.

"Don't tell me he's going to go and bang on the gates of Angband again ? Morgoth will think he's gone truly senile." 

"No, my King. He only writes to inform you that your brother is now engaged."

Turgon spat out the wine he'd been about to swallow.

 

"That joke wasn't funny at all. For a moment I actually believed it."

"Your father has always been known to have a sense of humor," Penlodh thought to explain.

For a moment, Turgon also wondered if Penlodh meant to imply a lack of humor on his part. Then he looked at his Herald, with his dignified mein, his oval face stoic and framed with neat auburn hair that fell midway down his crisp, buttoned tunic, and any suspicion of hinted reproach left his mind.

"Penlodh, do you think I am a joyful person ?" he finally asked.

"Joyful, Majesty ?"

"Yes, gay... amusing... witty... funny, what have you."

"Well, to be honest, "joyful" isn't really the term I would use to describe your Majesty."

"What terms would you use, in that case ?"

"Hmm... Imposing, far-seeing, audacious. Personable, analytically minded. With a dark sense of humor and macabre that most Elves don't possess."

The King's face was crestfallen and he suddenly seemed very depressed.

 

* * *

 

 

Related or not to his conversation with the architects, all the inhabitants of the valley were invited to a grand festival organized by the king to celebrate the completion of the construction in the northern quarter of the city. Everyone was there, simple farmers, butchers, whatever their race. Large tables were set up in the tower and around the city. Many jugglers and musicians gave performances. The festivities lasted several days, and the royal warehouses were emptied.

"Glorfindel, I've never seen your wife..." Turgon commented to the Elf sitting next to him after two glasses of wine, "did you leave her in Valinor, like some of the others ?"

"Oh no, Majesty," replied the blond warrior with a slight blush, "I have not found the lucky lady."

"Bah! Getting married these days can't be too difficult. Anyway, your wife has every chance of dying a violent death, or one day deciding that you and your children aren't worth the pain of abiding in Middle Earth with such danger and laying down to die. It's the quicker way to get back to Valinor, since Fëanor took all thoses Telerin boats."

"But that's horrible !" Exclaimed Glorfindel, the hairs on his arms standing straight.

"It was a joke. Idril, don't tell me you didn't find that funny ?"

"No, father !"

"And you, Penlodh, are you married ?"

The Herald replied with a long tirade, in which Turgon was able to make out the phrases "to best serve your Majesty," and "to focus completely on matters of State." 

"Ah!  You are like my brother.  Well, besides hunting and climbing and braiding your hair by a campfire... Him and my sister, the day they get married will be the day Maedhros' right hand grows back." 

Glorfindel started laughing.

"Why are you laughing ?" asked Turgon with raised brow, "did I say something funny ?"

 

 

At the same time, several rows back, Eudes and Robert, the sons of Eric the Miller, found themselves on the terrace with Elven beers in their hands.  

"S'takes you right uptown," explained Robert.  "And by the all-father, do they never stop eatin' ?! I swears I saw the King eat an entire deer by hisself !" 

"You see what !  That little lady can eat whatever she wants and she don't weigh a thing !  And she done told me herself that they don't need to eat much jus' for stayin' alive !  She eats just for the pleasure of it !" 

"You think she does any other things just for the pleasure of it ?"

"I dunno any of that, God !  But for the rest of 'em, I seen 'em always singing sappy love songs or kissing, but never actually doin' the deed proper !" 

"But if these fairies never do it, how do they get their little 'uns ?"

They were silent for a moment, contemplating the sheer rock face looking over the great plain and the green valley, with the farms all lit up for the festivities.

"Maybe the she-Elves be layin' eggs," Eudes guessed.

 

 

"Say, Glorfindel, my daughter as your wife... what do you think ?" the King asked discreetly when everyone had left the table for the dancefloor.  

"Majesty, you would never permit me."

"What ? But, look, yes, yes I would permit you ! You're of a noble family with Vanyarin blood ! The best Knight of the realm ! And then you're both blond, and they say like attracts like."

"But, Majesty..."

"What, you don't think my daughter is good enough for you ? Okay, it's true she isn't very refined, but otherwise, she's a masterpiece !"

"The Princess Idril is very beautiful, but I don't love her, Majesty..."

"Well there we are. She cannot win your heart. You're not the Golden Flower, but the Blue ! Go on, admit it, it's because of her feet, isn't it ?"

Glorfindel didn't dare agree. 


	6. The Natives

**Chapter 7 : The natives**

 

It was well past midnight when King Turgon jumped out his four-poster bed to knock on the closest door.

"Penlodh ! Wake up !"

He had to wait several minutes before Penlodh came to the door wearing a night shirt and night cap and holding a candle.

"What happened, my King ?"

"Excuse me, my good Elf, but if I take liberties in waking you at this unholy hour, it's because the Sindar have started singing again just below the tower ! It's impossible to ignore !" 

The two elves went out to the balcony.  Ten floors below, a group of blond musicians were in the middle of playing and singing, interspersed with laughter.

"Can't they sing somewhere else ?! Also what even is that instrument ?"

"I believe it might be a violin, my Lord."

"Argh, and that language... I'll never get used to it !"

 

* * *

300 years before in Mithrim

* * *

 

"Here are the indigenous people of this country, the grey Elves of Beleriand, also called the Sindar," Turgon noted before the aboriginal ambassador.

"Kevanau !" Responded the Sindar.

"What a strange language," Turgon wondered aloud.  "Penlodh, you're an Elf of science... In your opinion, what are they trying to tell us ?" 

"Sindarin is a Celtic language," explained the Noldo, "if I'm right about the roots from the language of the Teleri in Valinor, I think we can reasonably conclude that it meant something like 'salutations' or 'hello'." 

"Very well. But what doe _Celtic_ mean ? " Asked Turgon.

"I don't know, it's a term I remember from books we were given by the Valar.  But I'm not sure of the exact definition.  I think it might be a generic term someone came up with randomly.  That said, I've never been able to trace the etymology." 

"Another divine mystery.  Sometimes I get the impression they hide certain things from us on purpose." 

 

* * *

 

"Like when they said that Quenya is a Finno-Ugric language," grumbled the smith Rog, head of the House of the Hammer of Wrath.  

"But then what does Finno-Ugric mean ?" asked Glorfindel.

Dressed all in white from head to toe, he shone in Rog's somber red forge like a great daisy.

"I don't know. I asked Penlodh, however.

"You are a curious Elf."

"But he said he didn't know. That's what it's called, that's all. It's what the Valar said."

"Have you ever noticed that when scholars don't know something, or they don't want anyone to contradict them, they always say it came from the Valar ?" 

"If you want my opinion, it's a very good excuse."

"But practical, for the most part."

 

* * *

 

"And that there, the flute with some kind of large pocket ?" asked Turgon from his balcony.

"Bagpipes, Majesty," replied Penlodh.

 

* * *

**Telerin Song**

 

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea  
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf  
I heed the ocean's call  
A Tuesday I recall

I traded out my boots  
And my old winter coat  
For shoes fit for a boat  
And cape of ocean blue

I left behind the drips  
Who told me to take care  
The sea is full of shit  
From the fish living there

When the wind starts to blow  
So too must I go  
Once the wind changes course  
We really must be off

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea  
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf  
I heed the ocean's call  
And she's screaming  
Screw it all

I'm seasick all the time  
Upon the angry waves  
I threw up after nine  
And also after eight

I've been bruised all over  
And slept amidst the damp  
It costs to be a rover  
But there's pleasure to be had

When the wind starts to blow  
So too must I go  
Once the wind changes course  
We really must be off  
Ohohohohoh hisséo !

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea  
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf  
I heed the ocean's call  
I'm Telerin after all

I'd sail around the world  
Just to see each port  
If only all the world  
Would let me have my sport

I'd fly to the four winds  
And fuck the harbor whores  
And the oceans would sing  
My name forevermore  
My name forevermore

When the wind starts to blow  
So too must I go  
Once the wind changes course  
We really must be off  
Ohohohohoh hisséo !

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea  
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf  
I heed the ocean's call  
My boat is in its thrall

My noble ship is proud  
Such beauty and such might  
The three most famous masts  
Look like a bird in flight

Olwë, Annaël  
Cirdan et Riguidel  
Adorn no piece of junk  
Or aught that's not made well

When the wind starts to blow  
So too must I go  
Once the wind changes course  
We really must be off

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea  
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf  
I heed the ocean's call  
A Friday I recall

Mother don't you cry  
Your son's not a failure  
Father don't you cry  
Your son is a sailor

See your little child  
He sails the seven seas  
It's naught to make you smile  
But it's my destiny

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - "Kenavau" is a breton word meaning "Hello". Breton language is a Celtic language that has strong resemblance with Welsh - and therefore Sindarin. Bretagne/Brittany is a maritime country in France, and Bretons are said to like drinking (like Thranduil). So the Sindar/Teleri being like Bretons is a private joke to French readers. Bagpipes are a typical Breton musical instrument.
> 
> 2 - Originally the song is by the french singer Renaud.


	7. The Round Table

**Chapter 7 : The Round table**

 

The heads of nine Houses of Gondolin were meeting around the Round Table, a superb work of carpentry divided into twelve even pieces, each triangular section depicting the symbols of one House.

Seated around the table were the illustrious Lords of Gondolin. There was Constable Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, rich as all the members of his House, Duilin of the Swallow, the agile archer, the powerful Rog of the Hammer of Wrath, Salgant of the Harp, also called 'the ugly', the voyager Voronwë, of the Wing, Galdor of the Tree, the young Ecthelion of the Fountain, and lastly Enerdhil of the Mole, miner and silversmith.

"Why are we here ?" asked Glorfindel, turning questioning eyes to his surrounding colleagues.

"Because Fëanor wanted to reclaim the Silmarils ?" guessed Egalmoth.

"And because then Fingon followed the crowd without thinking ?" continued Rog.

"And because Fingolfin wanted to go ice skating ?"

"No, I meant, why are we here right now ?" clarified Glorfindel.

Egalmoth made a gesture with his right hand as if he was shooing away pigeons.

"More boring matters, like the population transfer from Vinyamar or the sanding down of the hill..."

"When are we going to get some action ?" Ecthelion said in frustration.

"What you you mean by action, exactly ?" asked Glorfindel.

"You know well what I mean... Fights, monsters, saving a prince, the usual."

"But why a prince and not a princess ?" wondered Enerdhil.

"Because Noldorin women aren't stupid enough to risk their lives in such an ill considered manner," explained Egalmoth, "just for prestige or treasure. Therefore it's always the men who end up as prisoners."

"That makes things far less interesting," said Glorfindel.

"Lastly, it's said that once rescued, the prince can help fight on the way back," added Galdor.

"That all depends on the state he's in," replied the Constable. "Most often, he's terribly weakened and ends up in the saddle while you walk to get the food and the loot."

 

 

Turgon and Penlodh made their entrance. The son of Fingolfin took the place for the House of the King, his chair next to the only window in the room. As for Penlodh, he sat at the place for the House of the Tower of Snow and placed his files on the place for the Pillar.

"Greetings," said the King. "We can begin the meeting. Penlodh, what's the order of business ?"

"The security of the interior and the smoothness of Amon Gwareth, Majesty."

Sighs were heard at this announcement.

"Glorfindel, don't lean on the table," said Turgon. "And what's this I hear ? Were those sighs ? Ecthelion, make yourself useful for once. Tell me, what's the reason for all these malcontent faces ?"

"Majesty, you spoke to us of interior security," replied Ecthelion. "For my part, I would really like it if we talked about insecurity. The quality of sandpaper used to sand down Amon Gwareth doesn't interest me."

"I'll remind you that it was Ulmo who told me to do that. You will be very happy if we were invaded one day and the orcs couldn't climb it !"

"Perhaps... But in the mean time, with all due respect, I'm being bored to death !"

"You're so dramatic... I find you quite entertaining."

"I think what Ecthelion wants to say, with his youthful impetuosity," said Galdor, "is that maybe we could spend a little less time on certain subjects and a little more on others."

"Is that so," growled Turgon. "And what other subjects ?"

"Adventure !" exclaimed Ecthelion.

"Adventure..." repeated the King incredulously. "Penlodh, do you have anything to propose on the subject of adventure ?"

The seneschal consulted his files.

"Let's see... there's the son of your cousin Angrod who was kidnapped two weeks ago while hunting."

"Oh, really ? Isn't he called Oro... something or other ?"

"Orodreth."

"The teen is always getting into trouble, isn't he ? Well. A prince to rescue... does that interest you ?"

Ecthelion nodded vigorously.

"Good. Glorfindel will go rescue Orodreth."

"What ?!" shouted Ecthelion.

"What about it ? I want to be sure my nephew returns in one piece. And there is no way I'm sending a second person, it's not worth sulking over. Now so long as we're here, is there anything else ?"

"Yes Majesty," declared Egalmoth. "Why do some of us have the right to lead two Houses instead of one ?"

"Are you thinking of anyone in particular ?"

Everyone turned to look at Penlodh, who raised his left eyebrow.

"There's favourites..." someone muttered.

"If you want to double your workload, Egalmoth..." goaded Turgon.

"It's not a question of workload," clarifies Egalmoth.  "There is also the matter of tax collection : double houses, double taxes." 

"Taxes ? What taxes ?" asked Turgon.

"The taxes necessary to the running of the State, Majesty," declared Penlodh.  "But I don't see how it would be profitable to levy double taxes when as soon as you do so the money, which is currently distributed and utilized legally, will end up in a secret account in a Dwarven bank on the other side of the Blue Mountains." 

Egalmoth paled.

"Is that an accusation, vile bureaucrat ?"

 

 

A quarter hour later, a general Noldorin style argument had erupted and Turgon took the opportunity to slip out of the room, just like Salgant. A few meters away he noticed the unusually stocky figure of the harpist.

"Oh, Maleagant ! Did you escape as well ?" joked the King.

"No, I'm Salgant, Majesty."

"Please excuse me.  Their barking gave me a headache... When I think it was Ulmo who told me to build the round table, where everyone could be equal... You see the result." 

He gave a heavy sigh.

"Salgant... Why are we here, exactly ?"

"Because of your Uncle's Silmarils, my King."

"Argh.  Bloody Silmarils." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this should have been an earlier chapter but Dilly says it fits fine here, I did the translation on someone else's computer while on a visit and totally forgot about it. Sorry for that, hope you enjoy!


	8. The Knight of the Fountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one bit of wordplay in the original that just doesn't translate, so I compensated with extra snark. Enjoy!
> 
> -Scythe_Lyfe

**Chapter 8 : The Knight of the Fountain**

 

 

King Turgon had descended to the lowest level of the white wall which surrounded the city of Gondolin. He held a sheet of paper in his hands.

"Duilin, open the gate."

The archer did so. To his astonishment, he saw the King crouch, then crawl in his fine, long robe past the small door. Soon enough, all that could be seen were the soles of his gilded slippers.

"Sire ?"

With his grey, penetrating eyes, Turgon studied the immense smooth and black surface comprised of rock polished over the centuries. It looked more like glass than stone. The Noldo took his sheet of paper between his thumb and index finger. He held it against the polished stone of the cliff face, at just the spot where the wall ended. Then he let it go, and watched it slide perfectly to the bottom and land on the green lawn below.

"I'll never tire of this," he said.

 

 

"Tell me, Glorfindel," said the King in his deep, pleasant voice, "you told me that you were in Nevrast for three days, to see your parents. Is the capital still as beautiful ?"

"Just as beautiful, Majesty," replied Glorfindel, who was wearing a necklace of sea shells. "And the sea air is very invigorating. Also, I saw your aunt Lalwen there, and extended your greetings."

"Good. You did not reveal the location of Gondolin, I hope? Not even to my family ?"

"I said nothing, Majesty."

"Nor to my cousin Angrod ?"

"Angrod ? But I did not visit Dorthonion..."

"You did go rescue his son Orodreth while you were gone ?"

The great constable cleared his throat.

"Well, the Lord of the Fountain asked me if he could complete this mission... And I thought such an experience would serve him well."

"Oh this isn't good ! You sent that brat Ecthelion to rescue Orodreth?! He has trouble tying his own laces ! Reassure me, tell me he's accompanied by battle tried warriors, mages, and rangers !"

"No Sire, he left alone... With his human squire."

"By Eru! With a human, no less! And since when are humans squires ?"

"This is Belin the Blond, one of the sons of Eric the Miller, Majesty. He had no inheritance, and he was unemployed..."

"And so you thought you would make him a soldier..."

"On the other hand, Majesty, there are only trolls and vampires near lake Helevorn, nothing compared to your brother's trial.

Turgon shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, you know, my brother never actually went inside Thangorodrim... he couldn't find the entrance... Trolls and vampires, you say ?"

 

 

Two men walked through a somber tunnel. The one, with silver armor and long black hair with violet highlights was very tall and handsome. The other, who held the torch, was smaller, hadn't shaved in a week, and wore clothes rendered threadbare by the weather and the damp air.

"My poor friend," said Ecthelion, "you really seem miserable. Why do humans always seem miserable? I always said they're some species of poor wet dog."

"S'cuse me, milord. I swears I don't do it on purpose."

"I know, I know... And no need to hold the torch up like that, I don't need that much light to see. Elves can see pretty well in the dark. By Tulkas, how is it possible to be so small ?"

"Yet I be the tallest in my family !"

"Oh God, I can't imagine how the others... And could you stop making grammatical errors every five minutes..."

The Elf stopped, leaned his sword against the wall, and pulled out a map from his bag.

"Good, according to the map Caranthir gave us, the vampires' lair should be just at the end of this labyrinth. That is to say left right left left from here."

 

"I think we are lost," said Ecthelion as he dropped down to sit on a large stone.

"Perhaps we should have left some small peebles on the floor, milord."

"Hmm, let's see... What would Fingon Fingolfinion, my idol, do in these circumstances ?"

"Who's that, milord ?"

"The most valiant of the Noldor. What would he do ?"

The young Ecthelion then sang from memory the Lay of the Mad Quest by Hildor of the Pure Voice.

Lost and all alone

In danger and distress

His hair a frightful mess

Deploring that his loved

"No, this passage doesn't tell us anything... Look further down..."

And then he took his harp

In his hands strong and fair

And played a little air

He'd known in Valimar

When he had been content

"Yes, that's it !"

He took his silver flute out of his bag. Belin stared wide-eyed as the Elf began to play, in the underground tunnels. A happy tune, a simple, childhood tune...

And just as incredibly, a voice responded in the darkness.

At the clear fountain

I go at break of day

The silver water shines

And this is where I bathe

I loved you so long ago

But I never will forget

Ecthelion's face lit up at first. Then a bit of mangled grammar in the second verse caused him to raise an eyebrow; he turned to his squire and saw it was he who had been singing.

"Are you completely stupid or... ??"

"But milord, I couldn't help meself... That's a tune I know well and it's so pretty..."

"MANWË SEND ME AID, OR I THINK I WILL KILL THE LITTLE BUGGER!"

"Ok, but what's that noise ?"

It was a feminine voice they were hearing.

"William, go see if there aren't still Dwarves creeping around the corner... If there are, you have the right to eat them. Ai ai ai ai."

"The vampire !" Hissed Ecthelion.

He put away his flute and took up his great sword, ready to fight.

The fight did not last long. After they had silently killed the troll, William, the two adventurers had only to follow his footprints in the dust which led to a narrow corridor. This opened into an arch decorated with the odious symbols of Morgoth. But there, in the great hall where the feminine voice had come from, was the most unexpected scene.

In the back of the room, a young Elf with short blond hair was lying on a pile of cushions with a half naked vampire, kissing him lasciviously and running her clawed hands over his body. In another corner, trolls were playing cards and drinking wine.

"Orodreth ?" blurted out Ecthelion.

"Ai ai ai," cried one of the vampires, who had the most attractive bodies, and raised a hand to stop the trolls from getting up. "Look, we have visitors."

"I love home delivery !" exclaimed one of the trolls.

She stood, clad only in a diaphanous skirt and black jewelry that stood out against her pale skin. And she stared into Ecthelion's eyes, who lowered his sword as Belin looked on incredulously.

"Milord...?" whispered Belin the Blond, left alone by the other succubi who judged him too mangy to be desirable.

The vampire placed her hand on the young Noldo's cheek, and traced his bare chin with a long, red fingernail, stopping just above his chain mail.

"Let yourself go, Lord of the Fountain," implored Orodreth in a vacant, far away voice. "She knows things... things you could never imagine... If you knew..."

"He's right," purred the she-demon, pressing her chest against Ecthelion's. "I know how to rid you of your excess blood... With my mouth."

"Milord, don't listen to 'er !"

But Ecthelion's darkened eyes didn't seem to see anything but the scantily clad vampire who was now talking about things to do with a sword left too long in its scabbard, or else some drilling-related activities.

"Milord !" cried Belin in desperation. "Think of Fingonfinion !"

Suddenly, the enchantment was broken, Ecthelion's pupils regained their normal size and shining gaze.

"TO YOUR DEATH, HARLOT!" he shouted.

 

 

A month later, the three young people had returned to Gondolin, and Ecthelion made his report to Turgon in the throne room.

"And that's when she turned into some kind of squid and caught me with her tentacles and held me still.  But I had my helm with the point and I headbutted her.  I'm sure Fingon Fingolfinion would have done the same.  The blood spurted onto Belin, my faithful squire, but he remained undaunted.  He took up a giant troll club and started beating the squid lady until she let me go." 

Hildor the bard was totally excited. The King wasn't.

"And when you knocked out Orodreth, who you needed to save in the first place, when was that ?" he asked coldly.

After we had killed everyone, Sire.  He didn't want to follow us and desired to await the return of Thuringwethil.  So I knocked him out and carried him on my back.

"And is that why he has a concussion and the doctors say his cognition and decision making abilities are irreparably damaged ?!" roared Turgon.

The proud Ecthelion looked skeptical.

"Personally, Majesty, I can't really see the difference from before."

 

Belin listened amazedly to Ecthelion - amazedly, and looking for all the world like a poor wet dog.

"And when I've finished teaching you how to speak correctly, we'll find you new clothes... And I'll teach you how to braid your hair, write letters, sing passably, and play the transverse flute.  Civilization, that." 

 

 

 


	9. The 'Hug'

**Chapter 9 : The 'Hug'**

 

It was about a month since Turgon had returned to Nevrast, in the capital of Vinyamar, the oldest Noldorin city in Middle Earth, located on the coastline.

But this morning, it was an hour past when he usually rose, and he had not moved from his bed. The shutters remained closed.

Someone knocked.

"Majesty ?"

"Come in..." replied the King.

It was Penlodh.

The Herald said nothing. He moved a chair next to the bed and sat down. The King was half lying down, his back resting on a pile of pillows. His face looked completely drained of energy.

"Your Majesty, I think it's necessary that you get up."

"Penlodh... How long will this take, again ?"

"One week."

"Why ?"

Turgon's handsome and severe face twisted into a painful grimace.

"I made your special tisane," the Herald said at last.

He took the gold bell that hung from his waist and rang it. Two servants entered, one carrying a tray, the other with a steaming pot of water.

"Thank you Penlodh."

 

Once Turgon had gotten up, after a half hour of discussion with Penlodh, he took another two hours to get ready. He took a bath and was sumptuously dressed by his servants. Next, they tended his long brown hair that reached his waist. Turgon never braided his hair, preferring to leave it loose, only held back by a white-gold circlet, but this occasion called for a more elaborate coiffure. So he had his hair done in the old style of Tirion, which is to say that several strands were pulled back into a twist behind his head and tied in a bun.

When that was done, he went to make sure that the kitchens were ready for the visitors. Then he went to the Lighthouse of Vinyamar, built on one of the protrusions of Mount Taras, and stationed himself on the grand circular terrace, where he had a view of the entire Eastern side of the city and the plains of Nevrast. For the moment there was nothing to be seen on the horizon, just bright white clouds and fog. To the West, houses of granite were decorated with blue banners bearing the Noldorin High King Fingolfin's emblem. Large flags also graced the walls.

Turgon looked back to the plain. He squinted. The bright cloud seemed to coalesce and become more distinct. Men in armor ?

A sharp noise startled him. Something flew past a meter from his shoulder. He turned. An arrow stuck in the gap between two stones.

But it wasn't an Elven arrow, and attached to it was a hollow cylinder with a message. Turgon removed the arrow and opened the cylinder. He sighed.

Written on the paper were these words :

 

 

>  HELLO, LITTLE BROTHER !!

The time was here.

_The nightmare had begun._

 

 

Ecthelion and his squire had milled about the crowd watching the parade of arrivals from Hithlum.

Belin the Blond, the miller's son, had certainly changed since his adventure in the vampire's lair.  He was clean shaven, his blond hair was carefully braided and held behind his ears.  His clothes were light blue and silver, the colors of his master's House, and the emblem of the fountain was sewn here and there.

"You look much better like this," commented Ecthelion.

"I admit so, but these boots are still too tight about the foots."

"The what ?"

"The foots, milord."

"You mean to say the feet, I suppose. Look, here they come !"

The trumpets blared another time.

"Oh, milord !  How handsome is that one there !  That's the King's nephew, no ?  He looks like him, but less grumpy." 

The Noldorin elf behind them laughed.

"But that's not the King's nephew, my young friend. It's his father. Look at his headpiece."

"Ah !  It's quite true he has a sorta crown, just like on the gold coins.  But how can that be, him looking younger than his son King Turgon ?  And that guy there, that must be his twin brother... he's the same, but with braids."   

"No, that one there, that's his son."

Ecthelion made a sort of strangled cry.  Belin raised his eyebrows, having already gotten lost in the family tree.

"The son of Fingolfin," the Noldo explained to the human. "Findekano Fingolfinion."

"Findekano ? And Fingon ? He here too ? Milord ? Are you ok ?"

 

 

"My son !" exclaimed Fingolfin when he came before the throne in full armor.  "It is such a pleasure to see you !  And my daughter !" 

Exceptionally clad in an actual dress, Aredhel smiled wanly, having to await her brother's signal.  Turgon stepped forward, as was the custom.  Once he was before the High King, he knelt, kissing his right hand.

"My King..."

He stood up.

Fingolfin looked worried.  He raised his eyebrows, which were pointed like his son's, his blue eyes dimmed.

"Turgon, will you not give me a hug ?"

"Oh no. I don't really like those..."

"See here ! Your brother Fingon always gives me a hug !"

"Father..."

"Fingon, give me a hug."

Fingon came forward next to Fingolfin, a weak smile on his lips.  Turgon noted with a certain jealousy that his older brother's braids were still the longest.  Interwoven with golden chains, they came down to his knees.  How did he do it ?  Turgon's own hair still barely reached his waist.  

The valiant prince then drew his sword as Fingolfin knelt.  In that moment, he struck his neck with the flat of his blade.  His father did not seem affected, and he jumped up immediately as if on a spring.

"And now for you !"

Fingon knelt in his turn, and undid his braids.  Fingolfin took his great sword Ringil, and gave him a blow.  His son stood as if he'd just had a nice massage.

"Now it's your turn, Turgon..." he said, Ringil still in his hand.

"No Father, not this..."

"Oh well... I'm sure your sister..."

"Either my sister or..."

"To make your dear old father happy..."

"You're not that old."

"Oh, don't be silly !"

Against his will, Turgon knelt, and braced his neck muscles.  He saw his father's feet move, felt a rush of air against his neck and then an intense pain that didn't even have time to dissipate.

Because he fainted.

 

His sleep was filled with nightmares. He was back in his childhood. His brother Fingon bounded into his room like a thunderstorm and teased him for spending all his time reading and not enjoying the outdoors. His mother Anairë wanted to teach him all sorts of complicated instruments and forced him to take music lessons.

In moments of great loneliness he stayed happily by his cousin Finrod, who was the same age. Often they sat outside drawing. But suddenly Finrod was a wolf who mauled him to death.

 

"Sire ! Do you hear me ?"

It was the voice of Penlodh.

Turgon turned towards him. He found himself in the canopied bed in his room in Vinyamar.

"I'm being stupid... It was nothing but a bad dream..."

Then he saw Glorfindel, Aredhel, and even Fingon were at his side. And he felt as weak as a wet towel.

"You fainted, Majesty," explained Penlodh. "I think a cup of your special tisane will make you feel better."

"It's a tisane for headaches ?" asked Fingon worriedly.

"No, for depression," Turgon replied laconically.

 

And it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke about feet didn't translate really well, I'm preeetty sure it's more dirty in the original.

**Author's Note:**

> Every kind of feedback is welcome :)


End file.
